Window Tossing Night
by Writer Awakened
Summary: In the dead of night, one knight strives to perfect an impossible recipe under the eager eye of his archer lass friend. Little does he know...he is being watched...


_Window-Tossing Night_

- O -

Lowen was constantly looking over his shoulder. Even in the dead of night, alone at his fire, Marcus could show up, and if he did, there would be hell to pay. Especially since he was supposed to be watching the edge of the camp for enemy attacks in the night, not that they were anywhere _near_ the enemy at all. It didn't help that Lowen had a predisposition to jump at anything that sneaked up on him, be it man, woman, or supernatural being. But tonight ("Tomorrow," Lowen mused as he noticed how far the moon had moved) he was determined to persevere, no matter what. He had carried his steel pot along with him, and by all that was good and holy, he was going to use it. He had steeled himself to the bone, and nothing was going to stop him now. Even if it meant reliving the nightmare that was Window-Tossing Night, where no windows were safe from having hapless knights thrown through them.

Although stew was a mind-numbingly simple dish, perhaps the most mind-numbingliest simple dish ever (okay, maybe peas porridge is a _bit_ more simple) it was the one thing that Lowen could never get just right. How much red pepper and paprika, if the rations satchels still had any left? What was the perfect quantity of meat to spice? He had never figured out if sticking to one type of meat or making it a medley was the best call. Rabbitmeat or venison? Veal or fowl? And how to make it to the liking of everyone in the army, as diverse as they unusually were? Lowen was briefly glad he didn't actually have to cook for his whole brigade.

He was just about to taste his stew when a girl's voice called out to him.

In his exhaustion- and intense focus-induced trance, he heard Marcus.

"Ghaaah SirMarcuspleasedon'tkillme IswearIwasonlydoingit forthebenefitof theentirebrigadeeeee!"

"Sir Lowen!"

"Oh! Ahh, uh...Rebecca. It's just you. Right." Lowen wiped a full sheet of cold sweat from his brow. "You're...you're up this late?"

"I would say the same for you." She giggled. "Wouldn't want my hero to stay up past decent hours and fall ill."

"R-Really now, please stop that. I'm no hero, just a cook, and—well, my horse isn't really white, so—"

"Come now," replied Rebecca, sidling up to Lowen and peering into the pot. "Can't you just let a girl have her knightly fantasies, Sir Lowen?"

"F-Fantasies? About me?" Lowen asked, a bit confused and more than a little bit excited. It was dark, and it wasn't too likely that anyone would be watching them...

"Yes," Rebecca insisted, looking up at him. "Being saved by a dashing knight from a pack of evildoers. What girl wouldn't? I mean, what did you think I meant?"

"N-Never mind."

"So have you been cooking this whole time, Sir Lowen?"

"Yes I have," Lowen said, fidgeting uncomfortably and rather wishing Rebecca wouldn't sit so damnably close to him. "And, you know, you don't have to call me 'Sir Lowen', you know. I wouldn't mind if you ca—"

"Sir Cook, then?" Rebecca offered, laughing.

"But that's still calling me 'Sir'! Oh, never mind...but, you know...as long as you're up, would you mind...erm...tasting my meat? Down there, I mean. Er, in the stew!" Lowen shook his head. "_The food_. Here," and he hastily ladled out enough for her to taste.

The young archer took a sip, tilted her head slightly, and thought for a moment.

"Well?" Lowen asked eagerly.

"It's good," Rebecca said finally. "It's definitely...interesting."

"So it isn't good," Lowen said, rubbing his chin down and feeling his unshaven chin. He wondered how he looked with his seafoam-colored stubble unevenly gracing his face. Then he realized she was probably looking right at it now because he was calling attention to it and cursed his foolery. Then he sat back with his hands folded in his lap and tried to sink further into the darkness. Then he sat forward confidently and stuck his chest out with a bold look on his face. Then, he wondered why she was looking at him like he was some sort of loony.

"Um, no," Rebecca said finally. "I liked it."

"What I mean is," Lowen said, spooning out some stew for himself and taking a sip before nearly gagging. "Erm, what I mean is, when someone says a dish is 'interesting', they usually mean that it's, uh...well, not good. Also, because you usually call everything else I make 'scrum-diddley-super-umptious.' If you really don't like it, I'd much rather you say so, m'lady."

"Well, honestly," Rebecca said, blushing. "I think it could use a pinch more—"

"LOOOOOOOOOOWENNNNNNNNNN!"

Lowen and Rebecca froze in place and exchanged a look that was essentially the nonverbal equivalent of a puppy yelping tremulously. Lowen did not mistake THIS voice for Marcus's. Because it actually was Marcus's.

"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT COOKING IN THE FIELD? AND ON NIGHT WATCH?" The old man was scary when he was angry. And he was very angry. Beast mode-level angry.

"B-B-I-I-S-Sir Mar-Reb-Rebecca, I-er...HLEP! HLEPPPPP!"

"You know what the punishment for this will be!" Marcus said, jaw positively trembling with fury.

"T-Twenty lashes!" Lowen stammered, trying to get off easy. "Fifty laps around the entirety of Castle Pherae in full accoutrements! Throw me in the dungeon for _weeks_! PLEASE! THE DUNGEON! Not-NOT-"

If Lowen didn't know any better, he would have thought Marcus was smiling.

"Yes, Lowen. The window."


End file.
